


Some Bright and Last Thing

by bionically



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dom Draco Malfoy, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Horror, Imprisonment, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Smut, Suicidal Ideation, Veela, Wing sex, graphic smut, marriage law, very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-21 21:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22737073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically
Summary: Hermione only meant to return to the Manor to confront her ghosts and hold a civil conversation with a sick and changed Draco Malfoy. It never occurs to her that he has other plans for her...Please heed the tags.Kinks: kidnapping, bondage, wings, nonconKinkfest 2020
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 56
Kudos: 358
Collections: HP Kinkfest 2020





	Some Bright and Last Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [senlinyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/senlinyu/gifts).



> Prompts: “Bite me.” “If you insist.”  
> Kinks: bondage, noncon, wing sex
> 
> When Sen posed an ask on tumblr, I honestly had no idea what to write for her. I managed to put some (not all) of the kinks she had mentioned (throat-touching, wing sex, a nod to Reylo, among a few others that I hope she'll pick out). This is written in part as a tribute to a few of her works, albeit in a very dark, creepy manner. Since Sen and Jame and I are all joined together by our love of horror, this fic is accordingly very dark. It is not meant to be a romance. It will feature a very dark non-con scene. Everything has been painstakingly beta'd by Jame, but if there are any mistakes, they belong to me alone.
> 
> Happy birthday, Sen!

* * *

Locust-wind, small

through-the-yellow-sycamore

fingering wind,

_Carry me,_

let the prayer—valiant, up—

go. Some bright and

last thing

should.

- _Lustrum_ , by Carl Phillips

* * *

Everything about the Manor was ornate and overwhelming.

The drawing room was paneled with eighteenth century walls of a duck-egg blue and enhanced with a palette of wintry green upholstery and ice-cold white drapes, with the only warmth the glint of the tarnished gilt on heavy portrait frames. Watercolours interlaced the oils, and all hung as straight as though measured against a plumbline. 

Hermione sat on an uncomfortable chair and twisted her fingers.

It was the image of classical English respectability, of dark furnishings unweathered by time and only a little civilised by the misleading feminine frills.

At the centre of the room was a bright, colourful carpet. A large square rug with such intensity of dye in its dark and light colours that it almost looked three-dimensional. The rug was a valuable antique; it held a provenance that rivaled her family tree. Not only was it more than two hundred years old, it was studded with foil-backed gems amidst its gold and silk threading. It was a carpet to hang on the walls for anyone else but the Malfoys. 

Once, she had been spread out on top of it, so close she could count the glass beads and seed pearls woven into the fine threads to give the carpet its unique, distinctive glow.

She had noticed it between screams.

Hermione had researched the entire house but concentrated her reading on this room. She had had nightmares featuring this room, with its parquet floors under the rich carpeting and its eclectic mash of colours under an intricately molded ceiling. Nightmares that prompted her to lift up her chin and decide to confront her fears. Her enemy had been dead and gone these past five years or more; she was damned if she would let memories defeat her.

Now that she was here, her courage was ebbing. She was slowly being suffocated by her bravado. The collection of bric-à-brac decorating the place loomed at her, like miniature sentinels frozen in time by whoever bound them in place for all eternity. The crown molding was stultifying; the chandelier was a glittering gargoyle trying to oust the pretender. The portraits, all alarmingly silent, watched like so many gleeful spectators at a hanging.

Last time, the massive double doors opened out to a domed vestibule with a glimpse of grand, curving staircases leading off in two different directions. She had spent an eternity wondering if making a run for it would avail her of anything.

Those doors were closed today.

It was ridiculous, this yawning sense of dread she felt from just the furnishings alone. The man opposite her no longer offered any sort of a threat; not any more than this inanimate house did.

If Draco Malfoy had been the bully that they’d dodged at every turn in school, he was very different now. Once upon a time, he had been snobbery personified, with bespoke robes and a future of possibilities that attracted toad-eaters in droves. He had kept to himself after the war, and whenever he appeared in public, he was a strange, morose, lank figure of a man. The picture of remorsefulness, he frequently had a drawn face, like death warmed over. If he had once possessed any semblance of attractiveness back in school, the war—and his actions thereof—had leached it all out of him.

Hermione was not immune to sympathy for the boy she had once yearned would get his comeuppance. When he had requested her company for tea, it had taken very little hesitation to agree.

She hadn't expected to be in here again. Not even when they passed the barbaric “Marriage Law.” Not even when she had received the greatest surprise of her life—a proposal of marriage from Draco Malfoy.

Her refusal was a knee-jerk reaction. It was second nature to refuse to bow down to the capricious dictates of the new, fanatically progressive Ministry. A Ministry determined to piece together the broken tapestry of the post-war world, even if they were left with jagged seams and gaping holes.

She only wished that her refusal wasn’t the sole reason for her presence today.

Upper-class respectability and repression seeped from every cornice of the house. It was a house in which one stood stock-still for a portrait, not for dramatics such as torture or a rejection of a marriage proposal.

Opposite her, Draco Malfoy seemed to feel completely immune to the oppressiveness of the closed drawing room. If he wondered at the silence of the portraits, he didn't show it. She was relieved to see that he looked less grim than the last time she had seen him, although the long ponytail he affected reminded her disturbingly of his father.

"Some champagne?" Draco asked. He was standing, a tall, too-thin figure in unrelieved black robes with only the glint of a silver and emerald pin at his neck. He held two champagne flutes in one hand, their fragile stems caught effortlessly between long, slim fingers. On his other hand, the heavy gold signet of his seal flashed in the light as he flourished the champagne bottle.

Hermione blinked. “Er...champagne? Are we celebrating?” A small, uncomfortable laugh escaped her.

“Why else would you accept an invitation to Malfoy Manor?”

_To confront my demons_ was not the appropriate response here, so Hermione kept silent. She wondered instead if Draco Malfoy had misunderstood her intentions. “To say that I was surprised by our—discussion last time is an understatement.”

“To say the least.” The outward pull of his lips was not completely a smile. That gave Hermione the comfort of knowing he would not be altogether too surprised at her rejection.

Hermione took a deep breath and rose to her feet, smoothing her pleated skirt down as she did so. His eyes tracked her movement, but when they returned to her face, he didn't show a flicker of discernible expression. “I’m sorry, Draco,” she said. Thankfully, she had not stumbled over his first name, though the usage of it still felt strange on her tongue. “I’m—very flattered that you thought of me as a suitable choice for—for marriage, but I’m afraid the answer is no.”

He neither made a sound nor moved a centimetre, but she felt the air inside the room stiffen, as though the atmosphere within the Manor froze in reaction to a Malfoy being rejected by a Muggle-born who had no idea the honour bestowed on her. 

She regretted coming here. The laying of ghosts could only be accomplished in a place of peace and understanding. Yet her instincts, which told her to leave, went unrealised; she felt bound by the strictures of polite society. The faint hum of the Manor made her surroundings feel as sentient as a live wire.

When he spoke, his tone was so mild and calm that she briefly thought she must have imagined the tension. “I suppose I’m not that surprised. So, you plan to take on the Ministry, is that it?”

She let out a slow breath of relief before she began chattering much too quickly. “Surely you must see that they’re severely overreaching with this law. How they imagine it’ll go over with people is honestly beyond me. It really shouldn’t be allowed to just _happen_ —”

He began pouring the champagne into two glasses as he listened to her without interruption. When she took a breath, he set down the champagne bottle and held out a glass to her. “Then we must commemorate Hermione Granger's taking the Ministry to task. Your rejection is for the greater good, after all."

Had she imagined the slight note of irony in his voice? Or was it simply because she didn’t know him that well—or at all, really? Conversation between them now that diplomacy had finally taken over was stilted and awkward. 

She took the glass and swirled it. “It’s a bit early for champagne, isn’t it?” No matter what anyone said, it still felt strange to be sipping champagne with Draco Malfoy at eleven o’clock in the morning as though they were celebrating instead of childhood enemies forced into civility by maturity. She peered at him through her eyelashes in time to see his careless shrug. 

When had he turned into someone for whom rejection was a non-issue? Perhaps she really hadn’t known him at all. Somehow, in light of his nonchalance and the complete, utter silence of this well-run household, rejection seemed rude and excessively personal; something meant for the arrogant, brash person she had known. Could she maybe...

She shook her head. What was she thinking? Of _course_ she was rejecting him. She wouldn't marry Draco Malfoy just because of a law, and not even if there had been no law. To her, marriage wasn't meant to be a business proposition like it felt here—to be sealed or disregarded with a casual handshake and the clinking of champagne glasses. 

His lips twisted with some emotion that she couldn't read, but when he spoke, he sounded perfectly at ease. "Well, then, there's no harm in taking a little fizz with an old classmate. Cheers to the overturning of that law, and all that." Lightly, he touched the rim of his glass against hers and lifted his drink to his lips in a single, fluid motion.

It would have been churlish to refuse. She took a small sip and blinked. It really was very good, and usually she didn't even like champagne.

"Only you would turn your nose up at a thousand Galleon bottle champagne," he said. His tone was gentle steel, and there was something tense in the line of his mouth. 

She gazed back down to the drink and blinked. "Oh, really?" Had he broken out the drink when she came over? It now seemed even more rude to refuse to drink. She took a few more hasty gulps before setting the nearly empty glass down next to the lounge. "I just—just so you know, this has nothing to do with you specifically. I wouldn't—agree to marry just anyone like that. I think there has to be a more intimate connection in marriage, don't you agree? And frankly, I was…" Hermione trailed off as she lost her train of thought. The portrait above the fireplace seemed to shift in its place, and she lifted a hand to her brow. "I was…"

"Go on," Draco said, in that same gentle voice. Not one she would have associated with the boy she had known. 

She stumbled backwards until the back of her knees bumped against the chaise and she fell into it. "Sorry, I think I should—that is, has that champagne gone off? I feel a bit strange. Are you feeling dizzy too?"

Draco stood and slowly crossed the room to her, his steps muffled by the rug. The room swung around her with his movement. All she could focus on were his shoes; polished to such a high degree of shine that it was surely impractical as everyday wear. The carpet beneath his feet now seemed to gape under him, like a busy abstract painting with cavernous depths. 

"Don't fall," she said weakly. Surely he should take more care when walking over lava. "Careful."

The last thing she remembered before falling sideways onto the couch was his face, calm and expressionless, as though women fainted in front of him every day of his life.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Hermione was disoriented when she first woke up. 

She was stretched out on a large, soft white bed. There was only a single candle flickering next to the bed. The rest of the entire room was shrouded in darkness, with a thin line of light glowing like a beacon from the folds of the curtains. When she moved, a clinking sound gave her momentary pause before she was distracted by a movement in the darkness.

“Hello?” she called, her mouth dry and her throat parched as though she had been asleep for years. She hoped that didn’t prove to actually be the case. She felt certain she had been fully dressed when she lost consciousness, but now she was dressed in a large, billowy nightgown, the type that women wore in Victorian times or earlier. 

The room sprang into brightness with a sharp clarity that bit at her eyes and had her raising an arm to throw over her squinting eyes. The light dimmed to a more manageable level, and a blond figure stepped into view.

He didn't speak immediately, just stared at her with his hands loosely at his side, looking somehow tense and… _watchful._

“Malfoy?” Hermione asked, puzzled. Her fingers worried the edge of the duvet, and she had to fight the urge to pull it up even higher on her chest. “What—what happened? Did I faint?”

His eyes fell away. “You did,” he said. With several gestures, he magically lit lamps around the room.

“Oh.” She blinked owlishly at him and around the room. Like everything about this house, the room was large and formidable, with heavy dark wood framing painted paneling. The effect of the deep, rich red walls would have been garish and gothic had not the rest of the room been accented with neutral colours. The four-poster bed, for example, was framed with filmy white fabric.

It was, again, so ornate that she felt as though she were on a stage set.

Framed by towering curtains of heavy damask drawn to one side, the windows were at least three storeys high, and an orange glow shone weakly through the window panes.

Hermione gasped. The sun had apparently come and gone. “It’s—oh, it’s so late. I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I’ll just get out of your hair.” She checked that she was fully covered under the sheets and then flung the bedding aside to swing her legs down to the floor. The height of the bed was ridiculous—she would have to jump down from the mattress.

It was then that she realised what the incessant clinking sounds were. Cuffs—leather ankle cuffs were strapped around each of her ankles, linked together by chains comprising of three or four links and a solid bar in between. The bar was no longer than her wand, but it would impede her movements a lot more than simple chains would.

Her eyes widened and flew to Draco’s, searching frantically in his implacable face for information. “What—what is this? Am I tied up?” She flushed; of _course_ there were cuffs restricting her movement on her ankles. The only question was _why_.

It wasn’t only the cuffs hampering her walking. The nightgown was too long, and two metres of hem trailed on the floor. She spent precious moments pulling them up over her arm.

That was when she made her second horrific realisation. The carpet beneath her feet was the same one as the one downstairs in the drawing room. Putting her bare feet on it nearly made her heart leap out of her chest. Surely the Malfoys didn’t have two identical rugs in the Manor? No, surely not. Which meant…

Her heart was pounding so loudly she could hardly hear her own voice demand, as though through a long tunnel: “Where’s my wand, Malfoy?” 

“It was Draco downstairs, but no matter." He smiled, and the light glinted off his teeth, white and dazzling in the darkness of the interior. "Now you’re my captive.” 

“What do you want from me?”

“Soon, _pet_.” The way his eyes glittered as one side of his lips drew upwards made Hermione realise with a chill that the pleasant, calm demeanour downstairs had been all a show. Or was _this_ the show? She was afraid to find out. “Get back on the bed.”

Her skin felt cold with sudden fear. “Malfoy. What is this? Why have you taken my wand? Why am I tied up like this?” Her voice started to shake and she ended on an almost shrill note. Without even realising it, she had started to retreat until her buttocks bumped the edge of the soft, gargantuan bed. She jumped in alarm as though he had summoned it there and rounded the foot of the bed, skirting the corner frame to the awkward clanks of the chains around her feet.

He winced in a way that was clearly an affectation. His wand lazily came up and pointed at her. “On the bed or off, I really couldn’t care less. It’s your own choice.”

“Is this—is this punishment for rejecting you? You—” Hermione almost choked on the words erupting from her throat. “You don’t even want to marry me! Not really. It’s a stupid law, and this… it wasn’t even personal!” Her hands fisted the front of the nightgown. Her mind didn’t—couldn’t even begin to connect her disrobing to what was going to happen—not now. 

“It _is_ personal, _Mudblood_ ,” Draco said, stepping forward. A wave of his wand, and she was frozen in place, helpless and paralyzed at his approach. He walked a complete circle around her, clicking his tongue slowly and audibly in the cavernous room. 

Her eyes darted around in their sockets; she was fearful of a surprise attack from the rear. The apprehension was nerve-wracking.

His voice came from behind her. “Who knew that it’d be you that I’d honour with a proposal? What a joke this all is.” There was a slight breeze behind her as he paused momentarily, and her heart almost leapt out of her chest before he spoke again. “Nobody told me any of this, not my dear sainted mother and my devoted father. They’re all gone now, and there’s nobody to explain anything to me. Tell me, Granger—” he stopped right in front of her, so close that his nose almost touched her forehead when he leaned into her “—tell me what makes you so special that I just— _have_ to have you?”

She stared back at him, kept silent by his spell. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her chest constricted, tight with fear. Hermione felt on the verge of hyperventilation. She had never been frozen before, although she had tossed out the charm many times. It had always been a prank. Now she realised just how terrible being held captive against one’s will was.

“ _You_ ,” he said, giving a short chuckle that seemed all at once too amused for the situation, yet not meant as humour at all. “You filthy, little _cunt_.”

Suddenly, he moved. 

If Hermione hadn’t been frozen, she would have flinched. As it was, she was compelled to stay completely motionless as his left hand came up to grasp the front of her billowy nightgown, where her hands had so desperately attempted to preserve her modesty. He bent his head, and she caught a wave of sandalwood. It was exactly the same kind of oil that Bellatrix had used, and suddenly she was back in the drawing room again all those years ago, being held down against her will, the tickle of black curly hair brushing against her cheek as she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Her throat felt so constricted that for a moment she thought she was suffocating. She would die here, suffocating under a freezing spell. A breath bubbled weakly in the back of her mouth.

“You see,” he said softly, his breath billowing the hair at the base of her neck. Her skin instantly prickled in response. “I don’t know why it is, but I’ve been simply— _miserable_ —until you stepped foot into my house. I walked past you in the Ministry, and it was as though I could breathe again. Mercy, I thought I had an incurable disease that no one could diagnose. Now…” His mouth was at the crux of her jaw, and she felt the nip of something there—his teeth, sharp and biting. 

It seemed the precursor of more terrible things, punishment so terrible that her eyes blurred with unshed tears at its inevitability and her helplessness.

His voice was a whisper against her skin that she felt rather than heard. “Now, I feel on top of the world.”

Hermione was breathing hard when he stepped back. He was smiling at her with gloating satisfaction—as though looking at a knickknack acquired after strenuous haggling. After a moment, he seemed to realise why she hadn’t responded, and he waved the wand at her. 

“Malfoy, this isn’t the answer.” Speech burst out in a torrent, as though being trapped in her throat had increased the rushing urgency. She blinked back unshed tears and took a deep breath. Her heart beat in her throat, throbbing. “I can help you. I’m brilliant at research; everyone says so—even if nobody at St Mungo’s could—”

He sighed as though she had disappointed him, and his wand flourished in front of her. Her voice was abruptly cut off, her mouth remaining open.

He didn't want her to actually speak. He only wanted—she didn't know what he wanted.

A hand came up and with one finger, he traced the line of her bottom lip. She struggled against the spell, trying not to panic or struggle against the air caught in her windpipe. If only she could bite his finger, she would bite it _off_.

“Yes,” he said. He appeared to be talking to himself. “That big mouth will come in handy.”

Then he jammed two fingers into her mouth so hard Hermione almost gagged on them. 

Like a dam being released, tears sprang to her eyes and rolled unbidden down her cheeks. The sight of them seemed to distract Draco, and he paused, pulling his fingers out of her mouth. He flicked at one of them on her cheek, and she felt the coolness of his wet fingers on her skin and realised that it was her saliva dampening his fingers.

It reinforced just how _wrong_ this scenario was. What was the matter with Malfoy? They had spoken together so pleasantly before. He had looked—yes, now that she thought about it, he had been extraordinarily pale and too thin since the Battle of Hogwarts, even though a few years had passed. His countenance had been troubled still, although he made a valiant effort to ask her about her job. Had it all been an act? She couldn’t believe she had been so taken in. 

_Why?_

Her mind sprang back to his words. He said he was sick. He thought he was incurable. He felt healthy only when he was near her. What kind of an illness did such things?

When he had walked around her, her eyes had tracked him closely. Gooseflesh crawled over her skin. It wasn’t her imagination anymore. There was colour in his cheeks again, and the shadows had gone from under his eyes. He stood straighter and appeared bigger, taller, broader—almost as though Polyjuiced. _What was this?_ What could effect such a change in someone?

Off the top of her head, she couldn’t think of anything, and _that_ thought scared her more than anything else. Was it all for nothing? Was her reading unable to help her now, when she needed it more than ever? It seemed like the worst of ironies.

He chuckled, and her eyes flashed back to his face, locking onto his eyes and unable to pull away. His irises were the palest grey, so light that they seemed to glow. “You’re more frightened by the thought of not knowing something. How refreshing.” His lips hardly moved as he spoke, the low, deep timbre of his voice another darkening threat.

Hermione had missed the movement of his wand that released her tongue from where it had been caged. “ _Get—out of my head_ ,” she bit out from clenched teeth. He had jabbed her somewhere in the back of her throat with his fingers, and it ached dully. 

“Don’t you feel the draw to me, Granger?” he asked, as casually as someone would ask if you preferred white or black tea. One hand idly reached up and pulled down one side of the collar of her nightgown, just as nonchalantly as though he were drawing the curtains away from the windows.

A flow of cool air swirled over her exposed skin, and she felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck as he took one long, deliberate sniff under her chin. “Hmm.” The sound vibrated against her chest, setting her innards throbbing in a way she didn’t understand. “I see you feel it too.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about until she caught his eyes lowered to her chest. A glance downward found that her nipples were puckered against the fabric. Metres of fabric though it seemed to be, it was nonetheless translucent, and the flickering light dancing in the room silhouetted her figure in the gown. 

What an idiot, she thought with rising hysteria. He thinks I’m attracted to him, when it’s nothing but a normal reaction in a cold room and friction against cloth.

_And fear,_ a voice whispered at the back of her mind.

The immature phrase that rose to her white lips stemmed from pure rage at her own helplessness. “Bite me, Malfoy,” she said, her jaw clenched so hard she could have bitten through solid rock.

Again that soft, deep rumble of laughter, horrifying in its gentleness. He stooped a little so that they were at face level. His large palm rested on the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and she could see his pupils, he was standing so close. His eyes were no longer heavy-lidded and drowsy, but wide-awake and molten silver. He adjusted her hair on the side where he had pulled down her neckline, and he smiled at her. “If you insist,” he said, his voice dropping an octave and becoming even more gravelly, “it’ll be my pleasure.” 

What was he doing? How could she make him stop? She tried to struggle against the spell, but couldn't, and he weaved his hand through her hair and pulled her in. She wasn’t prepared for the sharp graze of his teeth against her skin as he clamped down on her trapezius muscle.

He sank his teeth deeper and harder until she felt her skin give way.

She screamed. Her muscles contracted against the spell so hard that blackness loomed. She didn’t even register the moment the spell gave way and her knees buckled under her. She didn't even notice his hard arm around her waist holding their bodies together knee to breast as they sank slowly to the floor. 

Images flashed before her eyes. Incongruent, incomprehensible memories.

An ache under the ribcage. _His._ Continuous and dull at times, sharp and jagged at others. Thrashing on the bed at night, tortured by a fever that wouldn’t abate.

_St Mungo’s._ “We don’t know what’s wrong with you, Mr. Malfoy.” Polite words accompanied by pointed sideway glances. His gritted teeth against the blatant prejudice. No one would help him. That much was clear.

Opiates helped. He took them, sometimes in solid form, sometimes as a potion. They calmed his thumping heart, beating as though it would burst out of his chest. He clawed at his chest, sporadically and frequently. Once he ripped through a shirt, trying to still the pain. Sounds erupted from his throat, sounds he thought he’d never make—high-pitched shrill cawing, like the sound of a crying mermaid or a tortured peacock. _Why was this happening to him?_ If he could have cut out his own heart to halt the pain, he would have.

He had combed through his genealogy to find answers, but nothing came to light. There would be no one to leave this to. Perhaps that was for the best. His parents had done everything for Malfoy Manor, for the family name, for the prestige and honour of what it all meant in the sight of the world; even to the extent of sacrificing him at the altar of ambition. 

_Desperation._ Draco knew the sentiment well. How it could chip away at one’s sanity until nobody and nothing mattered. He would have done anything, _anything_ , to make this stop. 

The fever burned higher and higher. When he flipped through the tomes of healing journals with shaky hands, he left scorch marks on the pages. Another time, the bottle of potion began to melt in his hand before he could drink it.

His chest—god, his chest was _burning_. Why couldn’t the blasted fools at St Mungo’s not see that he needed help?

_The Ministry_. He had to put his affairs in order. The trip took him more time than it warranted; Apparation had been out of the question with the tremors in his hand, tremors that had gotten progressively worse until he had barely any appetite left.

But there. _There._

There it was. A light sound of laughter, high above the sound of people talking. Someone was chatting in a soft, happy voice. “Oh, don’t be silly,” that person said, and the burning pulsed, paused, and receded. Every word of that person’s voice was like an icicle tracing a soothing line down his spine. He shivered with delight, cracking the bones of his neck from side to side, the tension floating away quicker than even the most expensive healing spells had been able to accomplish. That one sound had been more soothing than twenty bottles of opiates, one on top of another. 

_More._ He had to have more. 

He followed. Who was this person, and how could he hear her voice and laughter above the loud rise and fall of a thousand voices? She wasn’t in the Atrium; that much he knew. Where?

_Where?_

It was as though the entire Ministry was in shades of black and white and blue. It was a sea of corpses, unknowingly going about their dead lives. Voices pulsed around him, like sounds echoing inaudibly through tunnels; incomprehensible noise, loud and unbearable, setting his heart thumping uncomfortably again.

_Someone_ was in colour, someone was walking, and the click-click-click of her heels echoed in his head in rhythm to the exhortation there: _come, come, come; find, find, find me._ It was the only sound that rose above the cacophony of the indistinct racket, like a beacon at the top of the lighthouse, motioning him forward.

He went as though in a dream, his unsteady steps jerkily bringing him inexorably closer to his goal. 

A glimpse in the endless tapestry of mirrored walls showed a dull-eyed, lank-haired individual so thin he looked emaciated and skeletal; on the verge of death. His hands shook as he dug it into his pocket to trace the reassuring line of the bottle of potion there. Every moment away from this light, bright sound and his purpose for living felt like spikes worming themselves into his spine.

It didn’t matter what this was, or why it had happened. An idea was forming in his fevered brain. All he had to do was carry it out.

He would do it, damn the consequences.

Desperation knew no bounds.

* * *

  
  


There was blood under his fingernails from when he had caressed her bite mark. She saw it there, dark curved lines of deep red seeping into the grooves of his cuticles. 

There was no freezing spell on her now. Not that it mattered. She felt so shaken and boneless that she couldn’t have made a move if she wanted to. Her leg shackles were still there: the bar hard and cold pressed against her leg. Presumably, it made for easy handling—if she managed to knock him down, he could still reach out and grab it, pulling her instantly off her balance. 

The leather was implacable, with a slightly scaly sheen to it that made her think that it was either dragonhide or manticore, neither of which wore down easily. 

She lay face down on the expensive carpet now, the nightgown having ridden up past her slack thighs. His hand was there between her shaking legs, probing intimately into her core, insistently thumbing her folds. He made satisfied humming sounds as he felt how wet she was. 

Something was wrong with this picture. He had—infected her somehow. She shouldn’t have been sprawled across this carpet of horrors, manacled against her will, and wet for him. This was all wrong. Though her body felt lethargic and enervated, her mind leapt wildly about, only just on the verge of hysteria.

Her cheek was pressed down against the uneven surface of the carpet. Once again, she could see the intricate tufts of threading that comprised the details of the sickle-shaped leaves and flowers. Beads glittered in the low light, just as it had the last time she had lain on it. His body pressed down on her as his long fingers delved into her most private part. One finger, then two. Hermione prayed so hard in her head that she almost couldn’t hear him. He hummed the entire time, as though he were strumming an instrument instead of assaulting a woman the first time she voluntarily entered his home. She sobbed silently to herself as he groaned against her back. _Someone_ , she thought. _Anyone. Help me. I can’t—I can’t—_

He stopped, his mouth against the shell of her ear. “Happy thoughts, my dear,” he said, his voice sounding almost as though he were drunk. “Think gloriously happy thoughts.”

She was pressed down again on her front with a large hand on her shoulder, his breaths coming in wet pants. Cool air met her buttocks and then her waist as the hem was pulled up. A hand ran down her back and over the back of her thigh, and she gave an involuntary shiver. His fingers returned, and her buttocks tightened as he worked his fingers into her again. There was a squelching sound of slickness and skin as his fingers pumped in and out of her, and the bile rose in her throat. Her fingers were curled half-heartedly against the colourful carpet, and her eyes were clenched tightly shut as she tried to keep her breathing even. 

“You’re going to love this, I promise,” he whispered into her ear before he sat up a little. His fingers didn’t stop their relentless stroking. He adjusted her bottom half so that one leg was angled at the knee, affording him better access to her cunt. His other hand palmed her briefly before he thumbed firm circles against her clitoris. His voice was ragged as he continued to speak. “I brought the carpet up for you, you know. I almost came in my pants when you were screaming on it the last time. It’s perfect for our room, don’t you agree? I redid the entire room in red just for you.” His voice lowered into a husky whisper. “I should have known then—known that the answer was you.”

Hermione almost bit off her tongue, trying to hold back her groans. Her eyes blurred from the wash of tears. _Think of anything else. Focus._ Focus on anything other than the toe-curling pleasure whenever he hit a spot inside of her that dotted her vision with white spots. The overwhelming shame as she fought the urge not to buck her hips back against his intruding fingers pressing deep into her, the terror of her body betraying her as she got wet at his attentions. The way his deep voice almost made her clit pulse and her insides quiver.

She refused to want him. It didn't matter what her body did.

Her cunt clenched around his fingers.

She was _not_ going to fall apart on his hands. He was a monster, a monster who wanted to degrade her on the carpet where she had had her worst moments in life.

He rose up on his knees and pulled her limp body down towards him. He knelt between her thighs, and she heard the clank of the chains as he kicked them aside. _I should fight back_ , she thought, but he had been right. Her abdomen had been clenched ever since he pulled down the neckline of her dress. Her nipples had been hard since his eyes fell on them. The forceful touch of his intrusive fingers made her yearn to thrust against him. The roughness of his legs against the soft skin of her inner thighs made her breath hitch with something less than terror.

She wanted to cry at the unfairness of this. Surely her body wouldn’t betray her in this way. She could still feel the stiffness in her neck where he had bitten her, marked her. Vampirism? But he hadn’t suckled at the wound on her neck...

There was a hard, insistent push against her pulsing core. His cock was hard and huge. She couldn’t help but be grateful that he had fingered her first in preparation. She was going to be ripped apart.

A hand pressed down between her shoulder blades, and his other hand came around the front of her waist and jerked her hips upwards. The ties of the nightgown had fallen open and her breasts rubbed against the rough texture of the carpet, the many bumps and edges stimulating them past endurance. Someone made a strange keening sound, and she was horrified to find that it had come from her. Her fists clenched helplessly on the carpet.

“Yessss,” he hissed behind her, a hand clamped around her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He was positioning herself at her entrance, the bulbous head of his hot, pulsing cock probing against her sensitive folds. She couldn’t help but give a small sob of need as he pushed against her.

There was a fever building in her lower abdomen, and her thighs began to slacken despite her best intentions. She hated this, _she wanted this_ , she hated him, _she needed him_ , oh god, what was happening? Unbidden, she reached down with one shaky hand to touch herself, and she was sopping wet with juices, so wet that he was slipping against her labia.

He lined his cock up with her entrance, and he began to move into her. 

  
  
  


After a couple of shallow thrusts, he pumped his hips forward and seated himself all the way inside her with a force that made her gasp and grunt. The fullness was too much. She had been wet, but he was so large she felt him clip against her cervix, and it _hurt._ The sensation jolted her out of her animal need.

_Get out_ , the logical part of her brain screamed. _You don’t belong inside me!_

It was overridden by her throbbing core, her shaking hips. She was twisting around him, clenching and contracting around his cock. She felt split in half, skewered by his piercing need, and yet she still needed more. Her buttocks rocked and rubbed against him, pulling him ever deeper into her, the walls of her vagina holding him so far in that they could have been one entity.

His fingers came down and clamped down on her hand over her clitoris. They moved in tandem, rubbing wide, insistent circles over her mound. His other hand came up to grip her breast, pulling her nipple into a hard peak, and then she couldn’t take it anymore. As she started to crest, his mouth clamped over her neck again, over the fresh wound that should have hurt like the blazes; she screamed and came around him and under him.

Waves of ecstasy flowed over her, and she fell heavily down on her forearms, her hips remaining high and locked in position by his hands.

“God, that feels amazing,” he breathed against her neck. He was still hard and rigid inside her although her walls were quivering all around him. He sounded breathless, and she let him pull her back up again, her breasts thrusting out through the wrecked ruins of the nightgown. Her limbs couldn’t have obeyed her even if she had wanted to struggle. A hand came up to stroke her hair and his arm locked her chest in place. His breath flowed over her neck and her wound. “You feel amazing.” He began to move again, thrusting slowly and deeply into her oversensitive core, his hips gyrating lewdly. 

She felt numb and shaky, but her body reacted instinctively, her lower abdomen clenching in preparation—and then she felt the dam break over her again. She came on his hard length, her mouth wide open this time in a scream so silent she almost resembled, in her own mind, a poster for a horror movie.

She felt him shift, and then his chest was skin to skin with her back, his arms clasped around her as she rode through her second orgasm.

As it ebbed, he kept up a conversational stream of chatter and continued his unrelenting thrusts into her. “Do you know what gave you away? When you drank the champagne, I knew you were never going to marry me.” 

She tried to block out his words, block out everything that was happening to her. _Insane_ . He was insane. He was _raping_ her, and she couldn't stop him. She was _letting_ him. This time, when she drooped in his arms, he let her, and her arms folded under her. She would have dropped to the ground in a slack crumple, but he held her hips in place. His cock continued to rub against that itch within her, and his hand knew just where to touch and how to touch her. His fingers were drawn back again and again to that sensitive cluster between her legs, the place that had only been touched in pleasure and love, and always with consensual reverence.

It was a betrayal of all her willing relationships in the past that he could make her orgasm like this, in a situation like this.

She held her breath, trying not to let any of it affect her. Not again. Her ears felt hot from the effort, and he leaned over to lick the rim of her ear in one long, sensuous swipe of his tongue. Her shame in her own participation couldn’t help her; she shattered against him a third time, a breathy scream ripping from her vocal chords, and she tried desperately to muffle the sound in the crook of her arm. Her breath stuttered in her ears and her heart was pounding in her throat. _Why wasn’t he finished yet? How long would she have to endure this?_

How long did he have to shame her before her pride broke?

The sound of the clanking of her chains in time to his thrusts reminded her; she was his prisoner. She didn’t have a wand. Locked in here, in this nightmare of a house, he could do whatever he liked with her until someone discovered her absence. 

Who would assume that she would be here?

She'd told nobody of his desire to marry her. She'd pitied him, pitied his sad, forlorn appearance after the war. She'd kept it quiet, not wanting to draw attention to him, to his strange request that surely meant his fall from lofty Pureblood ideals.

What a fool she had been. Something in her broke a little at the thought of that, at how her idiotic soft heart for downtrodden _animals_ had brought her here. That was what he was—a brutish animal driving himself into her and slaking his mad lust on her.

His thrusts sped up, his balls slapping against her in rhythm. Tomorrow her buttocks would be bruised from his hipbones. “If you had just agreed, I would have waited for you,” he said, his talking becoming more laboured. “It’s insane how incredibly wonderful I feel. I haven’t had sex like this in years. Years, Granger. Now I feel as though I could do this all day and all night.”

He paused and grasped her by the hair, pulling her unresisting body upward so that she was flush against him, her back against his front. His right hand was buried against her scalp, and his left rubbed continuous circles against her. As she felt the last of her tremors subside, he leaned over and latched his mouth onto her neck. He came inside her in a rush of hot spurting seed. His cock pulsed thickly in her core, and she felt the contraction of his stomach muscles against her back. A thick warm gush of come leaked out from between her legs where he had spilled inside her to overfilling. His thick cock continued to pulse, the rhythm slowing until he had spewed his last burst of seed into her. 

There was a sound of a slick slide of skin when he pulled out and rolled her onto her back. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Between her legs where his presence had been, she felt the coolness of air as sweat evaporated and she shivered involuntarily. She hadn’t had her wand, hadn’t been able to cast any sort of contraceptive charm or drink any potions. She wanted to vomit as the thought sunk in. _Violated_ . _Captive_. How was this different from the last time she had been kept here against her will? She was even lying stretched out on the same rug as last time. 

Her stomach heaved.

She hid her face into her arm, blinking back the rush of tears and swallowing the snot gushing from her nose. He pulled her arm down and it obeyed him as naturally as though it belonged to him. She turned her face towards him and was shocked at the transformation in front of her. 

Draco Malfoy looked like he had instantly gained two stone in muscle mass, and his skin glowed as though he had been glamoured. His chest was rising and falling, but he looked unperturbed by the exertion. Only the mussed state of his queue was any indication of his recent debauchery. 

But the most startling transformation of all were the two pale wings issuing from his back, with a wingspan that rivaled the breadth of the large bed behind her. They were a shade lighter than the colour of his skin and were featherless. They looked like an extension of his body, with bluish and pinkish veins bulging through the taut layer of muscles. She shrank away from him and began to scramble until her back struck the hard edge of the bed frame. 

Trapped.

Her head swung left and right, judging her ability to make a mad dash away, but before she could stand, a large, hard hand clamped around her ankle, just above the cuff.

"No. No no no…" The breath stuttered in her chest. Her frantic eyes went to the hand on her ankle and she whimpered at his pale, pointy nails, more proof of his monstrosity. In his other hand, he gripped the bar between her legs—a bar that had magically lengthened to suit his assault and accommodate his battery.

Another glance upwards brought awareness of those otherworldly, supernatural wings back into her consciousness. She shivered and stared, her fists clenched in the folds of her ruined and ripped nightgown. The wings unfurled soundlessly and hovered over her, close enough to touch if she dared.

She did not.

Her eyes dropped to his abdomen, from which his penis protruded, thick and dark pink, glistening with her juices. She caught sight of the streak of white gelatinous come on the carpet, leading up to her thighs. It was all over her, inside her. 

She wheezed out a short panicked scream. _Get it out, get it out!_ She was unprotected—she could be pregnant as a result of this rape. Her hands lifted, trembling, and she began to use the bunched up gown to frantically wipe at herself, at his come on and between her legs as if that would help.

One pale wing hovered at the edge of her periphery, like a supernatural spectre, and she flinched away, not wanting it to touch her. It appeared like a pale, skeletal hand, with the skin stretched tight over the thin layer of supple muscles. A blanket to smother and imprison her.

Had he appeared like this in front of her at any time other than just after their coupling, she could have reacted with blasé, intellectual interest. Now, after the acts between them, with his seed sticky and cooling between her legs, her limbs cold and numb, she felt only sickness and terror. 

What manner of a damned creature was he? He was a nightmare come to life.

The answer seemed to come from somewhere else, as though what had happened between them just now sealed the truth and revealed it for all time. 

_Veela._

Horror rose in her, pulling her under.

_Draco Malfoy was a veela._

She had just been raped by a Veela, one of those rare shape-shifting magical beings known for being so territorial that the males had by and large been hunted and slaughtered to extinction. What twist of fate was this, that her childhood nemesis would turn out to be one of them?

It wasn’t possible. He was a Pureblood.

“You can’t be—what I think you are,” she said, her volume rising and falling. “They’re extinct. There haven’t been—male Veela in a thousand years.”

There was an ugly grin on his face as he traced the tip of one sharp claw up her calf. She whimpered at the contact and tried to pull back her leg, only to be hauled back by the chains. “Oh, my dear swotty Mudblood,” he said. “There’s so much more you need to learn about wizards. Not everything is recorded in books. Not even genealogy.”

She saw only a flashing glimpse of his white teeth before he bent over her quavering legs, and he bit down on the inside of her thigh.

Another mark. 

She watched, as though from a distance. She could vaguely feel the sting of his teeth, but it seemed as if it was happening to someone else. _Shock_ , her brain observed. _You're in shock_ . It was illogical; it was animalistic. By rights, she should have sat up and taken notice when _Draco Malfoy_ , scion of the infamous _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ motto, requested her hand in marriage. Like an idiot, she had assumed only political pressure and failed to consider anything else.

He was _marking_ her as his mate. The meaning of the bite on her neck suddenly slammed into her. She slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes tearing up. The pain in her leg was nothing to the pounding realisation searing through her.

It hadn't been a random, malicious act, or a love bite gone wrong. It had been done to seal her bond to him so she could never escape. Even if she could somehow escape this house and run far, far away, she could never bear to see him die; she would die from grief rather than willingly give him up. Even if she still hated him right at this moment.

The horror of it pounded into her mind. _Enslaved. Captive. Bound against her will._ She was a slave to him even without the minimal protective shackles of a legal marriage.

"Mine," he said. His voice rumbled within his chest, low and satisfied, the sound of a lover making an earnest declaration. There was a thin line of blood at the corner of his lips, and he licked it away with a slide of his tongue. 

She hardly noticed. Every word echoed like the gravel of the judge handing down a capital sentence. 

He smiled, petting her hair in a manner that was almost affectionate. "You'll always be mine and mine alone. No one can take you away from me now."

“You can’t—you can’t want me.” Hermione shook her head numbly, trying to angle up her knees away from his touch. “This—you don’t want your children to be Halfbloods.” 

“Oh, decidedly not,” he said. He released his grip on her ankle, removed his hand from her hair, and sat back on his haunches, leisurely stretching his neck before pulling off his hair tie and finger-combing the long strands of platinum blond hair. In the dull light, with the harshness of the firelight slanting over the angles of his face, he had never looked so cold and forbidding. So much like Lucius Malfoy that she couldn’t help an uncontrolled shudder. “You misunderstand my overtures. I was—slightly incoherent at the time my offer was made, but now…” He rolled his head, and the muscles of his neck rippled with his movement. Behind him, those pale, supernatural wings with the wrinkled skin of a newborn baby rearranged themselves silently. 

He chuckled, a low, dark sound. “Now I’m finally in my right mind. I’ve no need to marry you. You’ll just...be around at my convenience.” He reached down and sank his clawed hand into her loose hair before pulling her upwards, unperturbed by her efforts to relieve the pressure on her scalp. “At my convenience. For my pleasure. To use as nature intended you. _Mudblood._ ”

For a moment, the painful pull of the hair at the side of her head jerked her from her stupor, and she straightened to stare back at him with defiance in her eyes. His every word acted like the pounding of a hammer on a tombstone. _At my convenience. For my pleasure. To use as nature intended._ Horror and anger managed to override the dull sensual stupor from their coupling. 

He had been out of his mind with illness when he had proposed to her. Or perhaps the sickness had marred his sanity. Maybe he had never changed at all, and she was seeing him in full clarity for the first time since they left Hogwarts. 

_This_ was the Draco Malfoy in front of her now, naked and unashamed, with no pretense for polite society—unashamedly prejudiced, a bully and a bigot to the end. On top of it all—a rapist and sadist. He had no intention of setting her free. He would keep her here, locked up and alive enough to ensure his own well-being, but as to her welfare, he cared not a bit. As long as she was well enough to _fuck,_ he could go on his merry way, pretending to the world that he was a changed man for the better. No one had to know she was kept here as a prisoner.

And she _was_ a prisoner. As soon as she was close enough to see the dark grey rims of his irises, she felt the resistance in her begin to ebb, like the flickering of a candle in the wind just before being extinguished. The scent of him, drenched in sweat and sex, washed over her, and her breath started to quicken and a dull ache began to throb between her thighs. All the while, at the back of her brain, a small, thin voice cried out, _no, no, you mustn’t. You mustn’t give in. It’s just hormones. Fight it. Fight it!_

He rose up over her, and a part of her recoiled in terror at his now enormous build. She turned away, trying to avoid gazing at him— _the monster_ _—_ directly with her eyes. A mistake. His hand tightened on her hair, pulling her forward and upward to rise with him. Caught off guard, she almost fell face down between his legs, only the inexorable pull on her scalp holding her up. Her fingernails scrabbled against the woolly surface of the carpet like a mouse with its tail caught in a trap, only catching hold of the hard knot of an imbedded gemstone.

She glimpsed a flash of thick muscled thighs, bestial, that bulged with veins and a ridged abdomen like something sculpted from marble. Then her chin was forced up and she was staring at that manic expression again. A bead of sweat shimmered on his brow, and the pale iris of his eyes was only a narrow rim around his blown pupils. He kept a tight grip on her hair, winding it around his wrist, drawing her in even as she tried to lean as far away as possible.

“On your knees, Mudblood,” he said softly. One large hand lifted to grip the base of her throat, the pointed nails dipping into the skin at her nape. Her pulse leaped frantically under his palm as he pushed her down to her knees.

She saw his cock swinging before her face, a thick, long organ of a deep pink colour ridged with veins. A bead of precum emerged from its plump mushroom head. She stared dumbly at it, her chest rising and falling with a rhythmic refrain. Of their own accord, her hands came up to stroke the long length, pulling back on the foreskin, caressing the penile raphe that ran along the underside of his cock. Without knowing why she did it, she wet her lips.

“Good,” he whispered, and a claw curved against her cheek almost affectionately. “Good.”

That voice at the back of her head was growing smaller, tinnier. _Bite it off, Hermione! Give him pain! KILL him!_

But I can’t, the other part of her said as she opened her mouth to its fullest and leaned in. Do I even want to? If I killed him, wouldn’t I die also?

_Dying on your terms is better than this._

Her lips closed around this girth, and her lashes shielded everything from view—his pale abdomen corded with muscle, his arms with the veins standing out in stark relief, and those wings—always those wings at the edge of her wavering consciousness. She gagged on his thickness, but she obediently tried to swallow more of his length down and began to bob on his cock as directed by his hands.

_You can’t think now, not with him close._

She sped up. Her jaws began to ache. Everything faded except for the smell of sex and the hard organ in her mouth. The voice became clearer in the vortex of her mind.

_He won’t always be around. You’ll be left alone._

She paused momentarily to pant for breath, but the inexorable presence of his hands gripped the back of her head in warning and forced her to continue. Her fingers dug into his hard buttocks as a weak measure of control as his hips bucked against her jaw in a movement rough enough to make her eyes water.

_Don’t despair._

Somewhere above her, he groaned, a guttural sound that hardened her nipples to pebbles, and for a moment Hermione’s mind blanked. 

Faintly, the voice persevered: _When you are alone, you can do it then. End it on your own terms. If you die, he dies._

His hand tightened at the base of her neck, locking her into position. She gagged and almost choked as he began to come. Seed poured down her throat, overfilling her mouth and spilling out the sides of her lips; panic began to overtake her. The feeling of drowning was overpowering; the sensation of a thick club down her throat so overwhelming that her eyes flew open and locked onto his chest directly above her. 

She was so intrinsically connected to him that she could almost _see_ through his skin and muscle, past the nerves and blood vessels to his heart within, _thump-thump-thump_ —it was speeding up in rhythm to his excitement, the same heart strung irrevocably by an invisible thread to her own. _Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump._ Two hearts, dependent on one another for blood, for life, for death.

She wouldn’t have to kill him to _kill_ him.

The voice strengthened within her. 

_You, too, can break free of these bonds._


End file.
